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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28726644">start again, from the beginning</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chicaroscuro/pseuds/Chicaroscuro'>Chicaroscuro</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Julie and The Phantoms (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, F/M, major character death is just sunset curve</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 11:54:42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28726644</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chicaroscuro/pseuds/Chicaroscuro</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Sunset Curve dies. Bobby lives.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>start again, from the beginning</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>
  <i><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-mkc800mn-k">and</a> I will try, try, try to breathe<br/>'till it turns to muscle memory<br/>I'm only steady on my knees<br/>one day, I'll stand on my own two feet</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I'll explain at the end ok</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>That night was supposed to be a dream come true. It becomes a nightmare.</p><p>Afterwards, years later, that’s the only way he can describe it. The memories are nothing more than fragments. He remembers being annoyed, about having to go track the guys down. He remembers the ambulance lights, blue and red reflected on the asphalt. He knows he saw them being taken away, but he doesn’t quite remember it clearly. The very last time he saw them, and he can’t remember what they looked like at all.</p><p>(Did he try to get in and go with them? It’s a question he keeps to himself for a long, long time.)</p><p>The next thing he remembers: sitting on the curb outside, sobbing into Rose’s shoulder. The street was dark and empty save for the two of them. Everyone else was gone - but she’d stayed. He was just some guy she’d just met. A guy who’d wasted time flirting with her while his friends <em>died. </em>But she stayed the entire time. She let him cling to her and sob like a little kid, for what seemed like hours until he managed to choke something out.</p><p>“I can’t go back.”</p><p>Her hands stilled on his back, where they’d been rubbing circles. “Go - back where?” Her voice was uncertain. She didn’t know anything about him. She was just a kid; they both were. Neither of them knew how to live through something like this.</p><p>“Home. I, I <em>can’t - </em>“</p><p>The words build up, stuck in his head. As long as he’s here, it all almost feels unreal. Like he’ll just wake up and tell the guys about the weird dream he had. Luke will clap him on the shoulder and say he really <em>would </em>die to play the Orpheum, and he’ll try to explain how awful it was, but lose his nerve.</p><p>Home is an empty barn. Home is having to look their parents in the eyes and <em>say </em>it. Once he says it out loud, he’ll never be able to take it back.</p><p>Rose’s fingers tangle in his hair. “Okay. Here’s what we’ll do. We can stay out here another twenty minutes. If you still aren’t ready then, you can come spend the night with me.”</p><p>Going home with her. “Okay,” Bobby echoes. At the time, it doesn’t even occur to him to think of it in any particular way. How could he? He’s barely even able to look her in the eye, when the pity and kindness there is so overwhelming.</p><p>He spends that night lying awake on her couch, the neon lights outside her window cutting harsh lines across his face.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>He talks to Luke’s parents first, then Reggie’s. Then Alex’s.</p><p>Everything still feels a little bit like a nightmare. A little bit, also, like riding to a gig: sitting in the back of the van, watching the world race past in a dark blur, broken only by the occasional streetlight.</p><p>There's funerals, and great swathes of nothing between. Words he doesn't register. Questions he can't answer. A suit appears, he puts it on, and he watches them put Luke in the ground. A few days later, Alex.</p><p>Reggie...it takes him a week to realize that nothing has happened. Another to see that nothing's going to.</p><p>Reggie used to live here. It had only been a little while, but it - it would have been longer. When his parents kicked him out, it was Bobby he went to. And Bobby took care of it.</p><p>So he gets out of bed with intention for the first time, and he talks to his parents and everyone else’s until he figures out where Reggie is now. It’s a different cemetery, a third one. Bobby barely even knew there were so many in town to begin with. The grass here is scrubby and sparse, a dull yellow-green. It’s cloudy, too, one of those days where the light is so dull and diffuse that it doesn’t even feel like the sun still exists behind the cloud cover. He walks around for at least twenty minutes, lost, before he finds Reggie hidden, near invisible. There’s no headstone for him, just a flat little marker that half-disappears in the tall grass.</p><p>His mother, in the corner of his eye, shakes her head. “This must have been what they could afford.”</p><p>“But - “ Bobby’s protests die on his lips. Did he really expect anything else?</p><p>After, he goes to the little office in front of the cemetery and searches until he finds a catalog. Headstones <em>are </em>expensive. The stone itself, installation, engraving, cemetery fees...it’s at least two grand, easy.</p><p>He’s never thought about things like that before. He’s barely ever even <em>known </em>anybody who died. But if Reggie’s parents won’t do it, then...someone has to.</p><p>Bobby doesn’t have that kind of money himself. He doesn’t even know where he could get it. He is - was - the money guy for Sunset Curve. They were never exactly rolling in cash, but what little they could make, he’d always take care of. Put some of it into promotion, some into merch, make sure they kept up their instruments and equipment...he could get into what’s left. But there’s definitely <em>not </em>two grand just lying around.</p><p>So he goes to Rose.</p><p>They’ve kept seeing each other. They aren’t <em>dating</em>. Dating is far, far from Bobby’s mind these days. But they’re friends, and she has her own band, and she’s in the music scene still. So he goes to her and asks, “Do you know anyone looking for some new instruments?”</p><p>She frowns up at him, half-through with tuning her guitar. His chest pangs for just a moment - but even in this, she doesn’t seem at all like Luke. “New instruments?”</p><p>“Not - not <em>new </em>new. Newish? They, um.” Bobby swallows. “They work, I swear. And they’re all still in my garage, so…”</p><p>No one’s parents had asked for them back. Bobby certainly isn’t going to use them. And it’s not like he’s just selling them for...for money, for <em>himself</em>. Still...Rose looks at him, and he feels suddenly sick with guilt.</p><p>“Are you sure you really want to sell them?” Her brow furrows. “I mean, I guess it’s okay if you do. I just don’t want you to do anything you’ll regret later.”</p><p>Bobby wraps his arms around himself. A second later, Rose sets the guitar aside and rises to hug him, too. It almost makes him feel worse - everything makes him feel guilty lately. Why wasn’t he with them? If any of them survived, why was it <em>him? </em></p><p>“I need the money,” he whispers into the cloud of her hair. “For...for Reggie. My guitar’s the most expensive thing I own, and even that’s not gonna be enough.”</p><p>“There’s gotta be other ways.” Rose sits back to look him in the eye. Her hands are still warm on his arms. Some days, he can’t bear a comforting touch, but Rose always seems to hold him together. “What if we put on a show? You can play with my band, and we’ll raise money just for this.”</p><p>“No!” Bobby yelps. Rose draws back, and he swallows at the sudden ice in his spine. “No, I can’t - I can’t.”</p><p>Bobby was the money guy. The guy with the garage. The rhythm guitar - supporting, in the background, never the lead. That never used to bother him. But now, alone...how could he ever be their equal?</p><p>He hasn’t said it out loud yet. But deep in his chest, there's a lurking certainty that he’ll never play music again.</p><p>Rose opens her mouth like she wants to say something. But she closes it again, and her eyes are so, so sad.</p><p>“Okay. We’ll figure out something else.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“We” turns out to be “just Rose”. If Bobby was the rhythm guitar once, he’s broken all his strings, and now she’s supporting him.</p><p>Sunset Curve is gone, but people still remember their music. Their <em>songs </em>aren’t gone.</p><p>Bobby has a hard time thinking about it, at first. But...well, it’s a good idea, isn’t it? Their music shouldn’t die with them. Even if other voices sing their songs, at least it’s proof that they existed at all.</p><p>So Bobby sells some of Luke’s songs. Recording rights, whatever - he doesn’t have it in him to read the contracts. At the end of the day, he gets what he needs. Reggie gets a headstone the same size as Luke’s and Alex’s.</p><p>The instruments go in the loft. Bobby doesn’t touch them again.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Years pass.</p><p>Bobby drifts along in Rose’s wake, now. It’s not the same as it was with Luke - with Luke, it was <em>their </em>dream. Now, he doesn’t want to touch anything for fear that it’ll break. He's just driftwood in the tide.</p><p>He sells more of the songs, just to make ends meet. He can't be <em>that </em>kind of burden on her. Besides, even if he cried all day the first time he heard one of them on the radio, the shock of it does fade. It even starts to feel sort of nice. Like other people are out there somewhere, remembering with him.</p><p>He hangs out with the Petal Pushers when they rehearse. It’s hard to know how he feels about that sometimes - about being around a band. It’s weirdly soothing and painful at the same time, like scratching at a scab.</p><p>Sometimes he just feels like a pathetic groupie. But Rose always seems to find him ways to help. Sometimes he makes their flyers, or helps pick out designs for their merch. It’s good to keep busy.</p><p>“Hey,” she says one day during rehearsal. Bobby is lying on a couch, both watching and not watching, but he cranes his neck around at the sound of her voice. She’s holding her camera up in one hand, dangling from the strap. “Can you take some pictures of us playing? I wanna print up some new posters later.”</p><p>“Sure.” He takes the camera from her. It’s a beat-up old thing. He’s pretty sure she’s had it as long as he’s known her. Hunched over, he peers through the viewfinder. Too close - he backs up a few steps, toggling the wheels at the same time until he figures out the zoom and focus. “Okay, I’m ready.”</p><p>Rose nods, and they start in on their latest song again. It washes over him as it has been all day. It’ll be perfect with just a bit more work, he thinks. He knows that process - he doesn’t really want to think about that. Bobby snaps off a few pictures. Easy. Just get all of them together, playing. But then - is that going to look good on a poster? He crouches down to try to get a better angle. There? Maybe, maybe. Maybe a few different angles, so she can have options later.</p><p>Still on the ground, he crab-walks a little to the right, looks up, and - oh. There’s Rose. She’s singing softly now, eyes closed, one hand caressing the microphone. The orange-gold light slanting low through the windows catches in the loose cloud of her hair. The edges of her glow.</p><p>Bobby’s breath is stolen. It’s been so, so long since he was able to see anything as beautiful. But somehow, his hands move on their own, and take the shot.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>That could have been the end of it. But Bobby feels, for once, like he’s finally managed to take hold of something. He doesn’t want to let it end.</p><p>There’s a darkroom nearby, fairly cheap to book time in. Bobby reads the books they have on hand, teaches himself what he needs to do. It saves Rose the time and money of sending things off for development. More than that, it keeps him busy.</p><p>Photography is more precise work than music. You have rules to follow, chemicals to order, time to keep. Luke would have hated it. But there’s something meditative about being alone in the darkroom. All alone in a strange light, nothing but a sharp focus on his work and the gentle lapping of liquid in basins.</p><p>It’s been a long time since he created anything. Maybe he never has; he <em>was</em> only the supporting guitar. But here, coaxing solid images from shadows, he feels...good. It’s an act of creation and preservation both. To capture a moment, indelible, and show others how to remember it just the way he saw it.</p><p>Searching out new pictures keeps him in the present. Bobby starts to look at the world around him and think about light and color, not what Alex or Reggie might have said. He listens to music without Luke’s voice in the back of his head. He makes art that belongs to <em>him</em>. </p><p>He goes out for dinner with Rose, and doesn’t think about That Night once.</p><p>Of course things don’t change all at once. That’s probably impossible. But it starts to get easier. It turns out that there is still light in the world, if you can just figure out how to see it again.</p><p>Maybe he can’t be the lead guitar. Maybe he doesn’t have to be.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>It isn’t the life he once dreamed of. He’s not rich or famous. He doesn’t even play anymore, and he’s okay with that. The guys would probably scoff. But their hypothetical reactions are something he can think about now with more fondness than pain. And one day, at home with his brand new wife, he realizes suddenly that he's happy.</p><p>It's a little bit like waking up as a different person. Which gives him an idea.</p><p>Rose laughs when he tells her his plan. "But <em>why?"</em></p><p>"I don't know," he hedges. He does. He could tell her, if he wanted; they tell each other everything. But it’s a little sad, a little complicated, and a little mysterious even to himself. And she's sitting at her piano, back-lit by the setting sun and framed all in leafy green. It's too beautiful today for all of that.</p><p>Instead, he smiles and jokes. "I'm an old man now. Bobby just sounds so young!"</p><p>"Huh." Rose looks contemplative as she strikes a key and scribbles something in her notepad. Silently, he shifts off the couch and onto his knees, camera carefully balanced in one hand. The barn is her space now, for the most part, but he comes in here sometimes to watch her work, just to listen. With her piano in the center of the room, her shelves and plants lining the walls, it feels like an entirely different space.</p><p>She’s working on a new song again. He watches her silently mouth lyrics to herself, and takes the shot. Perfect. Just in time, too. She looks up in the next second. "You’re not old. <em>We're </em>not old. But <em>Raymond? </em>Raymond's old, baby."</p><p>"It’s my middle name!" he protests. "What am I gonna do, pick a random one? I think it sounds fine! No, don't get up, the light's perfect there."</p><p>She pauses, and plops back onto the piano bench with a laugh. "You and your light. The sun sets every day, you know."</p><p>"Ah, but it's always different. We gotta enjoy this one while it's still here."</p><p>His next shot catches her halfway to him. Her arms are around his neck before he can even pull back from the viewfinder. "”How about <em>Ray?” </em>she asks in a teasing sing-song voice. “My own personal ray of sunshine.”</p><p>He snorts. “Holy shit. That is <em>literally </em>the most cheesy thing I’ve ever heard. I kind of love it.”</p><p>Rose laughs. "Great. I'll order you some new business cards," she teases, pulling away and turning to head back out towards the house. "Come on!" she calls over her shoulder as she bounds up the stairs towards the house proper. "Let's get started on dinner, <em>Raaaaay!"</em></p><p>He follows, looking up as he steps out into the evening. The sky is a dusky blue streaked with neon pink clouds, layering over one another until they disappear behind the roof of the house. He lifts his camera on instinct. It won't be the most artistic shot, but it's pretty. He can keep it for himself. He's got a lot like that tucked away - you can't just take things for granted, after all. You never know what memories you might want back later.</p><p>The thought has thorns. But it's a beautiful night,  so he sets them aside. He's ready to make new memories instead now.</p><p>Smiling to himself, Ray heads home.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Okay so when I first watched the show I thought they were foreshadowing very hard that Julie’s dad was Bobby the surviving band member, so I came up with a lot of headcanons and had a lot of feelings about it? And then that wasn’t actually the case at all. I love Trevor too, but <i>the feelings remained</i> so I <i>did it myself.</i></p></blockquote></div></div>
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